


5 Times Clint Tries To Fly

by hotaruyy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, And here comes the warnings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bird/Human Hybrids, Blatant disregard for one's own health, Captivity, Child Abuse, Clint's life story, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Growing Up, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal fighting rings, M/M, NOW CONTAINS FLUFF, Strike Team Delta, Suicidal Thoughts, Unethical Experimentation, Wingfic, Wings, animal/human hybrids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 08:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14912139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotaruyy/pseuds/hotaruyy
Summary: ...whether he succeeds or not is another matter altogether.In WWII, scientists succeeded in creating soldiers with special capabilities through infusing human embryos with animal DNA. Over the past decades, hybrid production spread over the globe – regulations limit production to governments, but the black market thrives.Bird hybrids, like Clint, are the most sought-after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Medical and physical accuracy? I wonder what they are.
> 
> Warnings: suicide ideation, graphic descriptions of mutilated bodies, inhumane experimentation (not on clint), child abuse (graphic-ish), mentions of sexual exploitation of hybrids, internalised hybridphobia (yep that’s a thing now), and of course your garden-variety hybrid discrimination
> 
> This fic contains so many issues; I wrote it when I was kinda in a slump myself. If you feel like I’ve missed any warnings please let me know <3

1.

Clint is tired. A bit confused about his entire life too, but mostly tired. Illegally bred and trained to compete in an underground fighting ring? Sure. Kept in chains by his owner? Okay. Fed rats and mice, and one memorable time, a squirrel? Alright. All because of the pair of red-tailed hawk wings growing from his back.

Nine years of clouded pain since he was able to remember anything, and it’s a wonder that he’s more or less okay now, even with Barney’s help.

Without Barney, he is nothing. It was Barney who put trembling hands on his cheeks after a particularly hard beating when he was four, and whispered, “You’re not a useless animal. Your name is Clint. Father’s wrong, you _do_ have a name. Your name is Clint Barton.” It’s Barney who excuses himself at the dinner table while hiding real, human food in his hand, slipping it to Clint on the way to the washroom. It’s Barney who just brought another poorly made brochure advocating for hybrid rights, which Clint clutches at like treasure. _HYBRIDS ARE HUMAN_ is splashed in bold across the front page.

“Just trust me,” Barney is saying. His grin splits his face, and Clint can’t help but think that it is the brightest thing in the world. “The Resistance is working hard, and soon, all hybrids will be liberated. We will run away, and it’ll be you and me, looking out for each other. We can do whatever we want!”

Clint falls a little more into the blanket of warm promise, small but scarred fingers gripping the brochure until it crinkles. Smiling back at Barney, he says, “You and me?”

The corners of Barney’s eyes somehow soften even more, and he reaches out a hand to ruffle Clint’s dirty blond hair.

“Just you and me, buddy.”

So Clint pictures him and Barney living that future, memorising Barney’s smile so that he can bring it back up whenever he’s bruised and bleeding again. And if he ever starts thinking that it would be much better to be ignorant of how he should be treated, that he should just resign himself to this life, he can simply picture Barney and him running down the street after stealing food, free and laughing, and know that he just has to wait some more.

The front door slams, and Barney tenses all over. Frantic, he snatches the brochure from Clint’s hands and tears it into a few pieces before crumbling them up. With a sinking heart Clint relaxes his hands, knowing that it would spell their death if his owner found either of them with it. Barney shoots a look at the chains to check that they are cuffed to Clint properly, then disappears into his room.

It hasn’t been a week since his last fight, and he still has a limp in his left leg, but a few seconds later his owner appears in the doorway. He stumbles over to Clint and unlocks the chains, breath stinking with alcohol. He rips off the threadbare blanket that Clint wrapped around himself and drags him to his feet, Clint’s bare skin and dappled brown feathers prickling in the cold. His loincloth feels pitifully thin.

“Hopeless son of mine won’t even fucking prepare the hybrid for fights,” his owner yells in the direction of Barney’s room. “Wonder what I’m feeding him for!” Without waiting for a response, he hauls Clint towards the door.

Clint hopes tonight’s fight will be quick.

 

* * *

 

The murmurs of the crowd rise steadily as Clint is thrown into the gaping sand pit, dug a metre into the concrete ground inside the former factory. Dust and sand lingers in the air, making his nose itch. Quickly scrambling up, Clint finds a horse hybrid opposite him, dark skin and grey coat painted with a bluish hue by the industrial spotlights.

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd roars for their blood.

The other hybrid immediately breaks into a canter and slams their shoulder into Clint, knocking him on his back and forcing him to spread his wings so he won’t crush them. Sand coarse under his fingers, Clint rolls to the side and tucks in his wings to avoid being trampled, but a hoof connects with his previously injured leg in a burst of pain.

Ignoring the way his leg spasms, Clint slides between his opponent’s legs and springs up in front of the centaur. He tries to wrap his arms around the centaur’s torso, but they jerk away from Clint’s grip and kicks, one hoof catching Clint square in the chest. Amid the cheers of the crowd, Clint is thrown up and across the pit. He takes the chance to unfurl his mottled brown wings when landing, noticing how the sand stirs from the beating of his wings. The skin on his chest is torn open, blood welling to the surface and leaking out, looking black in the pale blue light. Knowing that the bigger the show he puts on, the less likely he’ll be beat up back home, Clint runs up and along the wall of the pit, then pushes off with his legs, eyes squeezing shut at another flash of pain from his left leg. He extends his wings and backflips onto the back of the other hybrid, causing the crowd to gasp and shout. Heavy drops of blood drip from the gash on his chest, splattering onto the sand and the grey coat of the centaur beneath him.

Surprised, his opponent rears up, causing Clint to lose balance and slide back onto the sand. He lands on his wings again, sparking a raucous round of laughter in the audience. The centaur turns around and pushes one hoof into Clint’s chest to keep him down, avoiding the dark patch of blood. He feels muscle bruising under the hoof and gasps, desperately drawing air into his lungs.

 _Five!_ The crowd already knows that Clint won’t be getting back up and starts the countdown.

 _Four!_ Clint blinks away involuntary tears as he continues his heaving breaths, and sees his opponent lean down. Somehow, the weight on his chest is carefully maintained at the same level.

 _Three!_ The centaur’s eyes are dark brown and shockingly warm. This close, Clint can see the lines and scars on their face, the ridge where their nose was once broken.

 _Two!_ The hybrid’s lips move almost imperceptibly, and amidst the clamour of the crowd, Clint thinks he hears a quickly whispered “sorry”.

 _One!_ The buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts into cheers despite how short the fight was, already hungry for the next pair of fighters.

The two hybrids are dragged away from each other by their respective owners. Clint feels a blow to the back of his head, just the beginning of his punishment for losing, but tonight’s fight was all Clint could ask for. No taunting, no unnecessary pain, no playing around and prolonging the fight.

On the way home a continuous series of punches land on his head, and Clint’s vision gradually grows hazy. He is jerked back into alertness by a beer bottle shattering next to his body and the sound of angry muttering. Rousing, he finds himself lying outside Barney’s bedroom door.

“Clean this fucker up!” his owner slurs loudly, then turns to leave.

As soon as the laboured breathing fades away, Barney carefully opens his door. He slips his arms under Clint’s back and knees, carrying him onto his bed and laying him down. The moon is shining through the open windows, squares of silver landing across Clint’s body and the sheets. Barney’s muted footsteps trail out of the room in the direction of the bathroom. Clint turns his head to look, but his eyes refuse to focus. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but he isn’t registering most of the pain – it’s mostly just a muffled pulsing around his chest and head. His wings are mashed uncomfortably beneath his body, and Clint shifts around.

“Stop moving,” Barney’s soft voice says, as a wet but warm cloth wipes across his chest and loosens the dried and flaking blood. A spell of quietness lands on the two of them as Barney quickly tends to Clint’s wounds, occasionally wringing out brown water from the cloth and dipping it in a basin again. He finishes by checking over Clint’s head and his eyes, then stands again.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, buddy, you probably got a concussion. I’m gonna go grab you a sip of water, yeah?” Barney turns around and disappears around the doorframe.

As soon as Barney’s gone Clint feels unanchored, floating, a little giddy, just like whenever he managed to glide with his wings in the sand pits over the years. His owner never let him fly, but he’s learnt to manoeuvre his wings and support his body mid-air. Now, if only he can follow the moonlight… The moon looks like a big round basin, drops of silver dripping onto the bed. It’s beautiful. Surely if he follows it he’ll find the Resistance. He ignores his swimming vision and buckling leg and struggles over to the windows.

Barney needs to come with him. Where’s Barney? They don’t have to wait, they could just fly to the Resistance. They’ll be taken care of. No beatings, no starving, no fights. Sure, Clint has never flown, but he’ll manage it.

Clint rests his hands on the window ledge, shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright. Behind him, Barney’s footsteps falter, followed by the clink of a glass being set down. Concern laces his voice as he calls out, “Clint? What are you doing?”

Clint turns to answer, but his balance tips, and then he’s leaning out into the night sky, the ledge digging into his waist. For a moment, Clint thinks he will fall back into the room, but then he’s dropping, dropping into the silver light outside.

All of a sudden, adrenaline courses through him, waking him and dulling the pain of his injuries. He’s plummeting like a stone, and in a panic, Clint spreads his wings as wide as he can. The air tugs at where his wings join his back agonizingly, but just as he nears the ground, he feels his body swoop out of its initial dive into an upward curve.

And Clint realises that he’s flying.

The moonlit buildings are rushing past and the wind is pushing through his hair and his wings are carrying him _and he’s flying_.

How has he gone his whole life without this? Clint grins so wide his cheeks hurt, and he lets out an unaffected laugh for the first time ever; he feels truly alive, like the wind is coursing through his very blood–

Something hits his leg, sharp and burning. In an instant he curls into himself, losing balance.

His body plunges, crashing into the street in an explosion of white-hot pain, and the last thing he sees before he blacks out is a crack in the concrete sidewalk, right in front of his eye.

 

* * *

 

When Clint wakes, he finds that in addition to the wounds from his last fight, he has a bullet wound in his right thigh, and a sluggishly bleeding gash on his head.

And his wings are clipped.

 


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Barney sold him.

Screw him and his Resistance crap. Clint can’t believe he bought those lies about the Resistance for fourteen years straight. It probably doesn’t even exist. He wonders what other lies his self-proclaimed brother planted in his mind. Maybe Barney made him believe he should be treated like a human just to fuck with him. It’s not like anyone else ever acted the same as Barney.

His owner had died in a car crash. God, he was ecstatic, believing that Barney would take them to the Resistance, that they’d finally live their precious dream. Barney played along, taking him to the circus “as a treat”. The lack of the mumble of circus-goers should have alerted Clint even from afar, but no, he trusted Barney more than he trusted himself.

The ringmaster was waiting to the side of the garish tent with a wad of cash in his hand. Clint hadn’t understood even when Barney pocketed the money. Then Barney was cupping Clint’s face in his hands and saying softly, “Clint, you have to understand, I need to pay off his debts, I promise I’ll come back for you when I got the money,” and the world came crashing down around Clint’s ears.

He tried to run. But Barney knows him, and Clint’s tackled to the ground within a few steps, bitter dirt grinding into his teeth. As he struggles, Barney’s voice filters through the high-pitched whine in his head. He doesn’t remember most of it now, but he can still clearly hear the note of desperation sliding into Barney’s voice as he says, “All these years I cared for you, and I always will, you just gotta trust me.”

Care? Barney can shove his care up his ass.

So now he’s a freak show in a travelling circus, performing stunts for the audiences. The archer, Trickshot, is trying to train him with a bow and arrow. Useless, but at least it looks fancy. Trickshot said something about the ringmaster promising him better quarters if he succeeds in making Clint a bigger attraction than he currently is. Sometimes Clint spots him coming back from the streets with a bulge in his jacket pocket that wasn’t there before, but what does Clint know?

He’s not lonely. Everything’s fine. Hybrids like him shouldn’t have expected any better.

 

* * *

 

A few months later Clint never misses with his bow and arrow, owing to his hawk eyesight and strength, and the punishment for missing. The ringmaster calls him to his office.

“Your act will change to become part of the main performance,” says the ringmaster, his attention on the papers he’s shuffling. “You will be shot out of a cannon and you’ll fly through the air while shooting arrows. The cannon isn’t big anyway, so you should be able to control your flying.”

“Sir, my wings have been clipped before and they have grown back misshapen despite molting multiple times. I can’t fly.”

At that, the ringmaster turns his head to pin Clint down with a sharp look. “Doesn’t matter as long as you can shoot, hybrid.” The words are articulated in the way that Clint has learnt to associate with broken beer bottles.

And that’s how Clint ended up being introduced as _Cupid the Hybrid, ladies and gentlemen!_ , as he walks into the spotlight, sand billowing from his bare feet in the ring. He waves at the dark mass of people surrounding him amid the clapping and amicable cheers, and climbs up into the mouth of the cannon. This is the first time he’s doing this act. The ringmaster didn’t want to waste the explosives on practising.

Once he slips inside the bore, the noise of the crowd becomes muted, and that makes his thoughts unnecessarily loud. He isn’t nervous about his shooting. He doesn’t miss. As for the flying… He hasn’t flown since he stupidly fell out a window and got his ass shot, and his wings clipped. But the feeling of flying lingers in his memory, clear as a stream of cool water. He longs for the rush, longs for the pounding blood.

He’s actually had a few more chances to fly again, especially in the larger fighting rings that his owner began taking him to as he grew. But he never tried. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to risk breaking his neck with his misshapen feathers or because he’s given up, Clint doesn’t know. Letting go of those chances always left the taste of ash on his tongue.

The faint countdown of the audience reaches his ears. Clint checks that his bow and three arrows are in the correct place in his costume and positions himself. Hands crossed over his chest. Wings tightly furled. Chin tucked against his neck.

_Three, two, one!_

The _BOOM_ of the cannon is deafening. Ears ringing from his piercing headache, Clint is launched into the air. Rapidly blinking to adjust his vision to the spotlight that follows him, he manages to spread out his wings and reaches for his bow and arrows.

 _Clang!_ The first target is a bronze plate, hung up high from the top of the circus tent. A spotlight shows how the arrow hits the plate dead centre, but the ring sounds softer than Clint guessed. Maybe his ears haven’t recovered from the explosion of the cannon yet.

 _Crack!_ The spotlight on the first target swings to the second target, a thin wooden board that snaps in half once the arrow hits it. Clint can feel his wings ruining his balance, as if trying to tip him over. He hurriedly twists his body, aims at the last target and lets the last arrow loose.

 _Thunk!_ The remaining target is an apple set on a wooden block, right in the centre of the circus ring, apple skin gleaming in the spotlight. His arrow managed to hit the block dead centre, the apple halves falling on each side.

Clint tries to flap his wings and at least give himself a smooth landing, but the more he does, the more he struggles to balance. A sharp spurt of resignation accompanies the growing sense of panic, so he ditches his bow, folds his wings and lands with a flip, rolling once he hits the ground.

Standing up, he resists the urge to check his body for injuries and bows with a flourish. The tremendous cheer from the crowd is, again, strangely subdued.

As he jogs across the ring to retrieve his bow, flashes of moonlight, concrete, and Barney’s voice flit across his eyes. He drowns in their depths, knowing that he will likely never fly again in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's my birthday and my actual work can fuck off, here's a new chapter for you guys!  
> Clint is more rambling and introspective here cuz that's how a teen thinks (or is it just me?)  
> Anyway thanks for reading <3
> 
> EDIT: Just to let you all know that the next chapters might take a while because I am swamped in work and I'm not sure when I can return to writing. Sorry, and thanks for waiting!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the subpar writing. Stress is taking a toll on me.

 

3.

It’s late at night or early in the morning, depending on who’s talking, and Clint’s tired of being shot at.

Nocking three arrows at the same time, Clint twists his upper body around the corner to face the lounge and releases, killing three more of his masked attackers. One of them had been aiming his gun at Clint, and as the man falls, the bullet is sent straight into the antique chandelier above the men. Shattered crystal rains upon the three bodies. Checking that the site is clear for now, the archer surrenders to the pain in his leg and sinks down to the carpeted floor, immediately pulling off his sleeveless vest.

He’s been binding his wings ever since he got out of the circus three years ago, so that he could pass as human. Now, at the age of twenty-one, he’s one of the best assassins in business. After a mere year of taking jobs, he was given the alias Hawk (how apt) for being a “well-trained hunter”. The name is present amidst whispered recommendations or warnings in the darker parts of town, keeping Clint well-supplied with clients.

However, his career would crash and burn if anyone finds out he’s a hybrid. He could almost hear his fellow assassins muttering about imposters as they murder him. So, he has to pretend. The wing binding is highly uncomfortable and causes back pain, and recently, the archer even noticed that his wings are becoming deformed. But, looking on the bright side, he’s got a steady job and he’s not dead yet. And the cloth that he uses to bind his wings makes awesome impromptu dressings for wounds.

Clint puts aside his vest and unbinds his wings, suppressing a sigh at the release of pressure. He tears off a strip of cloth to wrap around the bullet wound in his calf, hissing through his mask at the increase of pain from the wound. The cloth is immediately dyed red, the patch of blood growing larger by the second. Deciding to forgo binding his wings again, the archer folds his wings tightly around himself and shrugs on the vest, then tucks the rest of his wings into his trousers. Shoving the remaining piece of binding cloth through his belt, Clint stands and picks up his bow and arrow again.

He’s in one of the hybrid brothels that Trickshot runs after he quit the circus. Even in the circus he had been acting as a middleman between client and hybrid, hiding the wads of cash he received when he came back to the tents. After he quit, Trickshot expanded his business to a sprawling network of seedy and cutthroat brothels that are famed for the lack of care shown for its hybrid prostitutes. Bodies that show brutal wounds are often found in the area, but since there’s no evidence to trace them back to the brothels, and the fact that they were hybrids made them disposable, the issue wasn’t looked into at all. When Clint received a job offer to bring down Trickshot’s empire, he had accepted instantly. He scoped the location the day before while having an epiphany about why there were so few female hybrids at the fighting rings of his childhood, and where the weaker male hybrids that wouldn’t have survived the rings disappear to.

As Clint surveys the lounge before him, noting the shattered chandelier, upturned furniture, and broken handcuffs and chains, he hopes that the hybrids he freed would not end up in worse situations. He wonders where Trickshot had hidden himself. Turning around to head to the upper floors, he is met with a tranquiliser dart that buries itself in his bicep. Shocked, Clint traces its flight trajectory and sees a blurred image of another goon holding up the tranq gun. But it doesn’t make sense, this person isn’t masked…

 

* * *

 

Slowly coming back to his senses, Clint resists the urge to open his eyes and betray the fact that he is awake. He regulates his breathing and registers the situation. Arms and legs immobilised, sat against the headboard of a… bed?

Clint blames his last assignment for his current predicament. It involved a few explosions and questionably necessary acrobatics that resulted in intimidated people, six bodies, and lost hearing aids. And he can’t exactly hear his unmasked ambusher approach without his hearing aids, okay? It isn’t a question of technique or ability, because Clint has got plenty of both, thank you.

“Hey, buddy,” an voice drawls, unwelcome yet painstakingly familiar despite the muted way it rings in his ears, and Clint’s eyes snap open.

It was Barney. His unmasked attacker was Barney. He sits at the foot of the bed, hand resting next to Clint’s wounded calf.

“Really, Clint? Bows and arrows? Thought you’d have gone for something more lethal.”

“My arrows are plenty lethal,” Clint rasps, throat dry, mind running overtime to understand why Barney appeared after so many years.

“Yeah, yeah, but surely you can do better. I can train you with guns and rifles, you’d be better at it than with a bow and arrow,” Barney says, opening a bottle of water and shifting over to lift it to Clint’s lips.

Jerking his face away, Clint asks, “How did you find me? No one knows I’m Hawk.”

Sighing, Barney screws the bottle cap back on. “I went to see the circus when it passed through Iowa a few years back, so I knew you were using a bow and arrow. And it doesn’t take a smartass to draw the right conclusions when ‘Cupid the Hybrid’ drops off the grid, and another arrow-shooting person named Hawk appears,” he says, looking meaningfully at Clint’s hidden wings.

“So what? You set up this job and waited for me so that you could get us face-to-face?” Clint scoffs.

“I did, in fact. I hired you to take out Trickshot. You wouldn’t have been willing to meet me otherwise.”

Clint’s eyes darken as he glares at Barney. “I knew I should have looked at this job more carefully. It was too perfect, letting me get rid of Trickshot and help hybrids at the same time.”

Barney turns his face away from Clint and says something softly, lost on Clint due to his missing hearing aids and reliance on lip-reading.

“I don’t know what you just said. Turn your face back to me so I can lip-read,” Clint raises his voice.

Turning back, Barney frowns. “Lip-reading? Why?”

Clint lets a sneer curl his lips. “I’m mostly deaf now. Carson fucked up my ears.”

Barney’s face falls, devastated. At that, Clint squirms on the mattress, uncomfortable.

“Father made you fight, Carson took your hearing, and Trickshot beat you, I saw the scars and wounds beneath your costume at the circus. I wish I could have protected you.”

“You sold me to Carson and Trickshot,” Clint seethes.

“It was the only way! And I’m here now, I promised to come back for you and I did, didn’t I? Now it’s just you and me, like before, right?”

Clint doesn’t bother reining in his laughter, letting it shock Barney into stillness. “Please, as if that would ever happen now. It took a few years too long, but I figured out you were the one who shot me in the leg that night my wings got clipped, when I first flew. No way my owner was sober enough to shoot straight, plus he wasn’t even there to see me fall out the window. You shot me. Why? Was it jealousy that I managed to get away first? Possessiveness?”

“Clint! Of course not! I shot you, yes, but what did you think was gonna happen after you flew away? Father was bound to find you again. I just wanted to help you,” Barney pleads, eyes shining.

“If your version of helping me is shooting me in the leg, selling me to the circus, and tying me up in a bed, then I don’t want your goddamned help, Barney.”

Barney seems to hesitate, then says, “Does killing Trickshot count as help, then?”

Clint goes blank. Motionless. “You killed Trickshot.”

“He hurt you in the circus. I was angry for years.”

“Trickshot was _mine_ to get rid of,” Clint all but snarls.

“Clint-”

“ _You have no right to call me that.”_ Clint’s expression cracks, vulnerable for just a moment before Clint gets his face back under control.

“Please! I just wanna do right by you.”

“If you wanna fucking do right by me, then let me leave, and ensure that I never have to see your sorry mug ever again in my life. When I next see you, I will not hesitate to kill, understood? I’m a hybrid, you’re human. You are not my brother.”

Barney is quiet for a long moment. The acidic tang of finally letting go of Barney momentarily fills Clint’s throat with bile, but after that he just feels a sort of sick relief that bubbles in his chest.

Silent, Barney unbinds Clint. Shaking his arms and legs out, Clint limps towards the window.

“Where are you going?” Barney sounds alarmed.

“Out of here, what did you fucking think.” Clint peels off his vest and shakes his wings free.

“We’re ten floors up.”

“I don’t know who you got hiding out there waiting to ambush me, dearest brother,” Clint says, voice dripping poison.

“Trust me when I say that there is no one in this building apart from the two of us. I cleared the building while you were unconscious.”

Clint reaches the window and pushes it open. For a split second, he freezes as his inner vision flashes a scene from years before – a window before him, a leg wound, wings outstretched.

Then he laughs.

“I’d rather die than trust you again,” Clint says as he falls into the night, mind flashing with arrows splitting each other open one by one, and bruises blooming across bodies.

 _I’d rather die before I trust anyone,_ he doesn’t say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barney is my misunderstood baby. He’s trying so hard.  
> Don’t worry, Phil is arriving in Clint’s life soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicidal tendencies

 

4.

He’s standing on a roof. The slanting light from the setting sun bathes his body and wings with yellow warmth.

His feet are steady on the ledge. He eyes the distance to the opposite roof, wings twitching. The gaping chasm between the buildings is one wrong step away, but surely his wings can carry him long enough to reach the other roof.

“You’d fall and kill yourself if you try, with the state your wings are in.”

Clint’s deformed wings jerk at the unexpected voice, then quickly settle to lie smoothly along his back. The assassin turns around slowly, eyes narrowing. He hadn’t sensed anyone, and should be dead by now. His hearing aids can’t be malfunctioning, because he can hear the stranger speak perfectly well.

“I don’t really care,” Clint says to the stranger standing a few paces away, voice rough from disuse.

It’s the first truth he let out of his mouth in too many years. The stranger seems to take his answer in stride, and they fall into silence, staring at each other.

Blue. The man in the suit sounds and looks bland in every way possible, but he managed to sneak up on Clint, and there’s a hint of blue in his piercing eyes that draws Clint in. It feels like he’s looking past all twenty-five-years’ worth of anger and loathing that Clint wears as a second skin, exposing the hybrid child that is somehow still yearning for approval. As if he’ll find approval from a random stranger that probably wants to kill him.

The silence gradually grows irritating. Or perhaps what irks Clint is the obvious well of patience that the man possesses. Clint fidgets, and the stranger finally speaks.

“If you don’t care at all, perhaps you might consider trying something else?” Calmly, matter-of-fact.

Ha. A recruitment. Even with his wings in full view, even though he’s a hybrid. The man’s fucking kidding. The archer lets an amused smirk stretch his face and asks, “What exactly do you want with me?”

“I am Agent Coulson, representing an organisation named SHIELD. Perhaps you recall sabotaging a few of our operations.”

Oh, Clint remembers them very well – the results were some of the highlights of his career. Now he’s even more surprised at the fact that he’s still alive, when this Coulson could have killed him without him noticing, and with so much reason to do so.

Coulson goes on, nonchalant. “Given your unique skillset and obvious competence, we would like to offer you a position within SHIELD. If you are willing, that is.”

“You want a hybrid working with you? A damaged one, to boot.” Clint bares his teeth in an imitation of a smile, spreading his wings to show their crooked and bleeding feathers.

“SHIELD is aware of your status as a hybrid. It is not something we take into consideration when recruiting, nor should it be. You will be treated equally as all our agents, and you will find other hybrid agents thriving in our organisation. Anti-discrimination regulations are implemented in SHIELD to ensure this is the case.”

Clint does a mental double-take at that. Other hybrid agents? Equally? What the fuck. The guy’s playing the equal rights card from the brochures that Clint believed as a child, but why?

“As for your wings, SHIELD has cutting-edge technology and medical facilities. I’m sure we will be able to restore your wings to peak form. And since we have cleared up the misunderstanding regarding how your body may affect your integration at SHIELD, I would like you to know that even if you refuse our offer today, you are welcome to join SHIELD any time you want. The alias Hawk is one that is revered, Mr. Barton-” Clint’s body stills visibly “-and while many governments and organisations would like you captured and convicted, even more want you working for them.”

A chill runs down the assassin’s wings despite the lingering heat of the sun. “You know my name.”

At that, amusement dances in Coulson’s eyes, despite how his face doesn’t so much as twitch. “Mr. Barton, if you decline our offer, please refrain from underestimating SHIELD in the future. We know a great deal about you.”

“So you’re threatening me and saying I don’t have a choice?”

“That is not the case.”

Silence.

Clint turns away towards the ledge, just enough to keep Coulson in the corner of his eye. “And if I try to fly?”

Coulson’s hand jerks slightly, unnoticeable to someone without Clint’s vision. “Then we would respect your decision.”

The archer’s mouth ticks up, the smile barely there. “Are you sure? Given the competence you yourself display, you could probably pull me back before my foot even leaves the roof.”

Another pause. “If you doubt my sincerity, here is a simple solution.” He crouches down abruptly while pulling a card out from his jacket pocket, ignoring the flinch from Clint. “This is the means to contact SHIELD, should you decide to take us up on our offer. I will be sent to retrieve you if that happens.” He lays the card down on the roof and stands back up in a fluid movement. “If you decline, I can guarantee that you will not see us again regarding our offer, long-standing as it is. However, I hope to see you in the near future – without arrows and explosions involved, of course,” he says, a gentle curl to his lips.

The he turns around and strolls towards the stairwell, opens the door, and just disappears.

Clint’s left standing there, stupefied.

He doesn’t believe it, can’t believe any of it. Long-standing offer? Fuck that, there are probably snipers with their scopes trained on him, ready to shoot once he gives any indication that he’s not gonna pick up the damn card. Heck, there’s no way SHIELD has hybrid agents. He’s never seen any. It’s all bullshit.

What reason does he have to believe Coulson, agent of SHIELD, when the only person in his entire life who has shown him compassion abandoned him anyway?

A breeze picks up, and feathers flutter down from his wings pathetically. Stepping onto the ledge, he flaps his wings, feeling the constant ache amplify.

He still remembers the exhilaration from the very first time he flew, has been clinging onto it like a lifeline the past few years. He wants to feel that again, even if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. And now he can choose – fly for one last time, or believe that SHIELD is planning to and can actually fix his wings, so that he can _fly_.

In the end it’s an easy choice. He’s never liked the taste of letting go.

Clint folds his wings flat against his back and walks over to pick up the card. The archer heads down the stairwell, sunset-washed door clicking shut behind him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that feathers can bleed cuz I didn’t.
> 
> Y'all I am ON A ROLL and nearly done writing this fic, please expect the last two chapters to be up within the next two weeks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fairly explicit descriptions of the results of human experimentation and mutilated bodies

 

5.

“Barton, incoming!”

Clint ducks immediately, letting his assailant trip over his body. Pushing himself up into a crouch, the archer twists and drives an elbow hard into the guy’s throat, hears the thud of his head hitting the floor. He straightens his arm to let an arrow fly and burrow between another attacker’s eyes. The body beneath him jerks, and he turns to see a bullet wound in the side of the man’s head, gushing with blood and staining the tiled floor. Frowning, he speaks into the comm.

“Sir, I know you have my back, but that was unnecessary.”

“You also know I’m nowhere near that level of accuracy if I shot from where I am,” comes Coulson’s voice in his ear. Clint considers the trees, drapes, and the narrow window through which the shot must have come from if Coulson fired, and realises that he’s right.

“Damnit,” Clint sighs. There is someone else on the scene, probably in the building, who isn’t with the Triad, but most likely isn’t aiming to help SHIELD as well. Just what they need.

Deciding to burn that bridge when he comes to it, Clint shakes the tension out of his wings and continues searching for the drive that he and Coulson were sent to retrieve. It contains mission parameters and personnel-specific information of twelve deep cover SHIELD missions, and the Triad is selling the drive at a meet tonight. Fury is already scrambling to get backup to the more delicate missions involved, but he isn’t pulling the agents out unless it is confirmed that the drive absolutely cannot be retrieved.

Blaring alarms and thudding footsteps fill the hallway just around the corner. Clint kicks open the door across him and manages to shut it behind him with his bow still drawn. The door must be soundproof, as all noise falls away and Clint is left with silence.

The room is lit by the exit sign above the doorframe Clint is standing under, flushing the room with weak waves of fluorescent green. His eyes adjust quickly to the dark and as he realises what he is seeing, his wings stiffen, and he freezes.

Rows and rows of gleaming metal tables are covered with mutilated bodies, randomly protruding lumps of flesh covered with either feathers or fur. Each table has a label of gibberish attached to its side. One body has a beak sticking out of their neck. To the back of the room, tanks bubbling with reeking water held twisting masses of hair, fins, skin, and scales. Several glass display cases built into the walls that reflect the green light seem to contain animal parts.

Clint vaguely hears Coulson’s voice repeatedly asking him to respond to something. Even after a mere eleven months of working together, the archer can already recognise the tone of faint worry and concern that others never seem to pick up.

“Barton, status.”

Clint forces out a shaky breath, eyes pinned to a hand hanging limply from a table, fingertips ending in claws instead of nails.

“Come on, Barton, talk to me.”

He drags air back into his lungs, wings trembling, arms shaking. The lifeless hand was cut open from palm to forearm, the skin peeled aside to reveal muscle.

“Clint, just let me know you’re fine.”

The clatter that the arrow in his grip makes as it hits the floor is obscenely loud in the graveyard silence. The white floor tiles are streaked with dried blood and what seems to be intestines.

“Hang on, I’m coming” is accompanied by the sound of Coulson moving from his perch outside the building. It’d take him a minimum of seven minutes to get to where Clint is. The building is a maze. Maybe six minutes, because Coulson gives a shit about his agents.

How long have the bodies been in this room?

Maybe he was made in a place like this.

Are some of them still alive?

And then his mind empties with the sudden clarity that danger brings. There is someone behind his wings, and a dagger slips near his jugular vein.

“Don’t move,” a smoky, female voice brushes past his ears, while cool fingers dig out his comm and let it fall to the floor. Sturdy black heels appear at the edge of his vision and grind the comm into sparking bits of plastic and wire.

“Aw, hearing aid,” Clint can’t help but say, then immediately snaps his mouth shut when the blade presses into his skin, nearly drawing blood. At least the hearing aid in his other ear is still intact.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Clint lets it guide his body, slowly turning around. A female hybrid stands facing him, the hand with the dagger just in view. Her neck and the parts of her hand not covered by her gloves show faint leopard spots. Grey marks hang from the inner corners of her eyes like teardrops. Her blank expression tickles at Clint’s memory, but her outfit arrests his attention. The unmistakable black cuff on her wrist reflects the green in the room; no doubt there is another on her other wrist.

The Black Widow. Clint wants to chuckle at his disaster of a life, but he would cut himself on the dagger.

“I have never seen a hybrid working for the government. SHIELD.” The Widow’s voice is silky smooth.

“Well, we tend to be overlooked, and it’s questionable, since I’m not really sure if SHIELD is part of the government. Also, I’ve been dying to know this for a while, but isn’t it weird that your alias is a spider when you’re a snow leopard hybrid?” He needs to distract her until Coulson arrives to fish him out of this… whatever this is. As always.

Unruffled, the Black Widow outright ignores what he said. “They trust you with their weapons, and the only tracking device is in a removable comm.”

Not sure where this is going, Clint lets his mouth run. “They modified it so it’s also my hearing aid. And if we get caught and our tracking devices were in our body, they would be dug up by the baddies anyway, so why bother. And really, it’s not a matter of trust, it’s mutual benefit. I do what they send me to do, they pay my wages, they give me food and a room, they let me have free reign of the practice range. They even fixed my wings. I’ll always go back, and I don’t have any reason to turn on them.” Not to mention Coulson and the way he listens to Clint. Or the way he smiles when Clint flops on his cramped office sofa. His steadying voice in Clint’s ear.

The Widow holds his gaze, eyes unnerving on his. The longer he looks, the more certain he is that he should be remembering something.

“You trust them,” she says.

He processes the phrase. It clicks in his mind. Quietly.

He _trusts_ SHIE– no. He trusts Coulson.

Judging by the slight tilt of the Widow’s head, that all played out on his face. Fuck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, just for emphasis. What happened to not trusting anyone again?

A small smirk graces her lips. Clint’s glad he put on such an entertaining display for her amusement.

“So, whose job have you taken that brought you to this hellhole?” comes Clint’s attempt at deflecting.

A short pause settles between them as the assassin considers whether to humour him.

“The Resistance. They’ve been paying me to take out hybrid experimentation.” She inclines her head towards the bodies around them. “Although lacking in financial support, they tend to pay me more than other clients, since most employers are disgusted by the fact that I’m a hybrid but still the best assassin on the market.”

An understanding huff breaks free from the archer’s mouth. “I bound my wings the entire time I was doing that. Pretending to be human got me better rates, but it was hell on my wings.”

He catches the slight shift in the assassin’s body language, and instantly goes on high alert.

The Widow’s words are flat, doubtful. “You didn’t start with the government.”

“Nah, I went from underground fighting to circus to assassination, then got taken in by SHIELD.” She must have thought he grew up already working for them. He searches her face and it hits finally, the thing that sparked his memory.

He sees himself from a year ago in her eyes.

“They took you in willingly.” The Black Widow’s expression is carefully blank, a tell that Clint now recognises from himself. Uncertainty, confusion, helplessness. Seemingly without reason to an outsider, but Clint has a grasp on what she might be thinking.

He keeps his voice light, mentally begging Coulson to show up _now_ , because he knows he’s treading on eggshells here. A wrong word on his part would leave him bleeding out on the floor. He doesn’t dare lie, not now. “Yeah. They did. Even though I’m a hybrid. I got offered a job, actually. I was in a pretty bad shape then, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try, ‘cause I could always… quit, if I wanted to stop.”

“Quit?”

Clint gathers his breath and clarifies, “Off myself.”

She seems to take forever to consider what he just said. Clint can feel his muscles tensing up. It’s become slightly unpleasant to think of where he was a year ago. At last she asks, “How long have you been with them?”

“Eleven months.”

A familiar and welcome voice rings out from the other side of the room. “It does seem longer, with all the fights and disturbances you stirred up.” Thank fuck.

In a flash, the Widow’s hand leaves Clint’s shoulder, and has a gun pointed at Coulson. The dagger in her other hand does not waver, nor does she shoot.

“Well, sir, some assholes just beg to be pranked on, with all the things that come out of their mouths,” Clint says, mouth unexpectedly dry. Coulson took only five minutes tops to get here. Clint’s not sure what to make of that.

The senior SHIELD agent slowly walks towards them, eyes scanning Clint’s body, likely noting the missing comm and lack of injuries. He stops a few paces short of them. “Widow. I believe our missions do not interfere with each other’s. If you would be so kind as to release my agent?”

Nobody moves.

“We also happen to be looking for a parcel to be sold by the Triad tomorrow. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?” Coulson continues pleasantly.

The tense staredown between hybrid and handler seems to drop the temperature in the room by a few degrees.

Eventually the Widow comes to a decision and says, “Five floors down, room 1407. You have five minutes to come back here for your agent before I blow this place up.”

With an unreadable glance at Clint and a curt nod, Coulson slips out the door.

* * *

“So you’re the one who shot the guy beneath me?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

Coulson comes back into the room by four and a half minutes, fresh blood spatters on his suit and the recovered drive a lump in an inside pocket.

Nodding at Coulson, the Black Widow finally moves away her dagger and shoves Clint away. He nearly faceplants into a body, and he gags and tries to block out the stench and the nausea.

“Get to the roof, you will be able to leave from there. It is faster than heading down. Explosives will be triggered in two minutes.” The assassin’s voice is still deliberately empty as she moves to plant the explosives, body angled to face them.

“What about you?” The concern in Coulson’s voice is genuine, but Clint doesn’t know if she can hear it.

“Leave,” she says, voice turning cold.

Clint tugs at Coulson and they jog out the door.

As they run up the stairs, Clint says, “That was fucked up,” grabbing the railing to pull himself around the bend.

“What was?” Coulson still looks unflappable. Like always.

“She wanted to see if you would come back for me. And then she let me go _before_ she told us to leave. Put herself in a vulnerable position when she rigged those explosives. Probably was expecting either of us to shoot.”

“Why would she want us to shoot her?” Clint could hear the frown in Coulson’s voice.

Before Cling can reply, they burst onto the roof. Scanning for the fastest way to leave, Clint points and shouts, “There! Zipline!” He couldn’t even hear himself over the wind.

Coulson signs, _There is only one handle on it._

Does she want to blow herself up along with the building? Make them take her escape route so she has no choice but to stay? Honestly, screw that, they’re not using her zipline.

Clint looks to Coulson and sees him reach the same conclusion.

Then, they’re stuck with only one way to get off the roof before it blows up beneath their feet, and evidently Coulson knows what he’s thinking because he signs, _Are you sure?_

Clint just nods. Together, they dash to the edge of the roof, away from the zipline.

Clint spreads his wings as they run, close enough for their sleeves to brush against each other. Using the momentum of their bodies, they launch off the roof at the same time. Coulson’s arms latch around Clint’s neck, the archer’s arms tighten around Coulson’s waist, and the agent hooks his heels around Clint’s calves. Exactly like the time Clint wanted to see if his newly healed wings were able to carry two bodies, and Coulson was willing to humour him. He won’t be able to sustain flight with the extra weight, but his wings are strong enough to coast for at least a hundred metres like this.

A few seconds later, the building explodes, blasting enough heat to ripple Clint’s feathers. The resulting air currents boost the two of them even higher. An amazed exhale leaves Coulson’s mouth, and Clint risks a glance to see what broke the façade of calm that Agent Coulson always wore.

A blur jumps from the end of the zipline onto a lower roof, muscles rippling and coat flashing with leopard spots. The figure crouches, and Clint realises it’s the Black Widow, who has inexplicably morphed into a proper snow leopard; tail, ears, paws, and all. Running on all fours, Widow streaks across roofs with astonishing agility, leaps down into an alley, then disappears.

“Since when do hybrids shapeshift?” Clint says, eyes wide.

Despite the wind rushing past them, Coulson hears him and speaks into the ear that still has his hearing aid.

“There’s a reason she’s the best. Her body can change to suit her needs.”

They land on a sidewalk then slip out of sight amid the growing chaos of panicking crowds, headed for the safe house.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly mixed up leopard and cheetah markings. Apparently cheetahs have the long tear marks, while leopards only have spots at the corners.
> 
> Also idk how aerodynamics work lol.
> 
> One chapter to go!


	6. Chapter 6

 

+1.

 _This is surprisingly peaceful,_ Phil thinks, and hopes he doesn’t jinx himself.

The three of them somehow secured a holiday after the last mission blew up in their faces. R&D developed new boosters for Clint’s wings in record time afterwards; Clint is relying on his wings increasingly during missions and he’s been overworking them. Phil isn’t certain he would feel comfortable seeing Clint back out into the world if he weren’t wearing the boosters, after that stunt in Hong Kong that made his heart stop for a few longs seconds, helpless. At least Clint is wearing them whenever he’s not home, noticing Phil’s uneasiness.

Nat sneaked off somewhere, probably to spend time with that not-so-secret girlfriend of hers, and Clint has taken him to Waverly, Iowa. A roof. A full moon is hanging above them.

Clint takes his hand, and leads him to the ledge. “We have a thing for roofs, don’t we?” Phil says jokingly.

“Roofs mean freedom, rooms mean confinement. You know this.” Clint’s smile is gentle yet blinding.

They sit, feet hanging into the void of the streets. It’s quiet, and Clint’s presence next to him is solid and warm.

“It- This is where I used to live. At the beginning, with Barney.”

Phil keeps his silence. Clint doesn’t like talking about his past and Phil clings to any fragments he reveals. For Clint to have willingly brought him here…

“There was this one time, I looked to the moon and thought that it was where the Resistance was,” Clint laughs deprecatingly. “Thought that it would be someplace where I would be loved.”

Clint turns his body towards Phil before he could respond, taking Phil’s hand in both of his own. His eyes shine in the moonlight.

“All my life I’ve just wanted people to love me, just wanted to be able to know that my trust is well-placed. But Phil. You taught me how to love myself. To know that I am nothing to be ashamed of. And that,” Clint swallows, “That is something I never even knew I needed.”

Phil can feel Clint shaking, imperceptible if he weren’t holding his hands.

“Phil, you’ve given my life back to me. You helped me fly again. Will you give me something more?” The tremors in his hands become more pronounced. “Will you-“ Clint says, and stops, sounding choked. His adam’s apple bobs.

Phil uses his other hand to stroke the back of Clint’s. “Marry you?” Phil asks softly. Clint nods, still speechless.

A grin breaks out across Phil’s face. “God yes,” he breathes out. “Clint Barton, I love you.”

Something that looks suspiciously like tears glisten in Clint’s eyes, but it might just be the reflection of the moonlight. “I love you too, you dork.” The moon caresses his hair, his cheeks.

If Clint’s wings are at full capacity, wearing the boosters allow him to carry double his body weight while flying. And that’s what Clint does. He hugs Phil close and tips them over the roof, flying off into the inky night towards the pale, brilliant moon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE!!! This was supposed to be way shorter. Oh well. Hope I got the voices right, especially the different ages and mindsets.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you're interested in a sequel, drop me some plot ideas and I'll see what I can do <3
> 
> Extra worldbuilding that I cut out of the fic:
> 
> One would think a scientist would have more sense than trying to create a “mischling” soldier with special capabilities by infusing human embryos with animal DNA. But no, this Schmidt dude went and generated a wave of hybrid production among other scientists. Sure, the government tried to ban recreations of the first successful experiment, but of course, it didn’t work, and they had to switch to regulations. Hybrids should be bred by government-franchised companies with tons of regulations about hybrid treatment, maximum number of “births”, and to whom they can sell the hybrids. Which is why hybrids are rare and expensive commodities that a small amount of people can buy and own legally.
> 
> Of course, people can still breed their own hybrids if they have the right tech, DNA, and lab equipment. Which is how Clint was made. Bird hybrids, like Clint, are the most sought-after because customers find their wings and feathers beautiful, and they are easy to manage. Cheetah, leopard, jaguar, and tiger hybrids are also favoured for their patterned skin, but are much rarer because their DNA is harder to obtain. Centaurs, essentially horse hybrids, are common choices among the rich, who have enough space to house the extra-large hybrids. Sometimes they would even saddle the centaurs and take them out for a ride. Aquatic hybrids are less popular, because water tanks are needed to breed and keep them.
> 
> The hybrids that aren’t sold as pets are usually shuffled off to other businesses, mostly illegal ones such as underground fighting. However, Clint himself was personally made by his owner, for the specific purpose of making money.


End file.
